I cannot, cannot bear; ’tis past , ’tis done; / Perish this impious , this detested son; […]

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[…] he made me throw away my peasant weeds, and gave me all these fine cloaths. See this tiffany, all spotted with silver; look at this beautiful turban—He gave it me all!

The room was a cross-mixture of voices. Come in Kelly 4. […] Come in Stanhope. […] Evans 9. Confirm. […]